


Jesse "High Noon" McCree in Operation: Super Soldier

by TrantRazber



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Frotting, Jack Morrison has a super soldier dick, Jesse McCree is not white, M/M, McCree eats a hot Pocket, McCree never takes off his hat, McCree wants the D, McHanzo - Freeform, PWP, Reaper76 - Freeform, a very confused Hanzo, blowjob, it gonna happen, jesse mccree will do ridiculous things to get a look at jack's dick, read between the lines ppl, roadrat - Freeform, star-spangled sex rodeo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9077263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrantRazber/pseuds/TrantRazber
Summary: In which Jesse McCree really REALLY needs to know how far this "genetic enhancement" thing goes. Featuring Lynyrd Skynyrd, star-spangled sex rodeos, a knife at a gun fight, a very blushy Hanzo, and Jesse McCree just barely not making his own dramatic bald eagle sounds.





	1. Hot-Pocket-Watch

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a drabble that's been knocking around in my head for months because I can't get over my kind of sleazy but golden-hearted cowboy and there is just NOT ENOUGH McSoldier. I'm trying to stay tru to the universe but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse does some recon on Overwatch's resident super badass, and also burns his mouth.

_“Super Soldier”_ was what Reyes had called Morrison. Thinking back on it, through the haze of gunfire, whiskey, and the dogged search for a very specific sort of ancient John Wayne-style clothing, Jesse was pretty sure he could remember hearing something about them when he was with the Deadeye Gang.

Super.

Soldiers.

He hadn’t thought much of the term at the time, because of the previously mentioned whiskey & gunfire & boot shopping excursions; he had better things to think about than whatever the U.S. military was doing or not doing to the rubes that threw their names into the ring for order-taking and spit-shining. The Deadeye Gang wasn’t his finest company kept, but it sure beat sitting around with a bunch of crew-cut drones waiting for the shooting to start. Hell, Jesse would still say so, even right to Jack Morrison’s face if he had to.

If he _felt_ like it!

And later, when Reyes had mentioned it casually in the kitchen commons while “overseeing” (unnecessary in his opinion) Jesse’s use of the microwave for a Hot Pocket (a time-honored post-training standard), he still didn’t think much of it. In fact, he’d only asked because he had the pleasure of watching Jack Morrison take multiple rounds to the chest and come up blazing, with that little doohickey on his face beeping away as their attackers seemed to simultaneously fall down around them like dropped puppets.

It had been, Jesse concluded, pretty fuckin’ cool.

“What’s his story, anyway?” Jesse punched a couple buttons on the microwave, hyperaware of officer King-Shit-of-Broody-Mountain over there watching his every move just because he had exploded the pastry lunch _a few times_ in the past (“It’s Overwatch, Reyes, not Hot-Pocket-Watch. Calm down, _amigo_! No use cryin’ over burnt cheese.”) Morrison had grumbled something about being tired and turned in for the night without so much as even declining Jesse’s generous offer of a rub down and some Wild Turkey, which was what he always wanted after escaping the jaws of death with a smoking gun and a really badass new story to tell.

“Who? Morrison?”

Reyes leaned with his back to the kitchen counter, not even hiding that he was watching the gunslinger like an overconfident older sibling left in charge. Their days in Blackwatch together had been pretty jam-packed, but still the officer found time to engage in little acts of dominion.

“Uh-huh.” Jesse answered easy and slow, the hum of the microwave a pleasant white noise between the two of them. He weighed his hip against the counter and scratched a little at the stubble on his chin, considering what he did and didn’t know already about Overwatch agent Jack Morrison.

“That stunt today shoulda put him in the ground,” he explained, casually examining Reyes’s expression for information from behind a cool, easy gaze.

“But he wouldn’ta pulled somethin’ like that ‘less he knew it was a ‘tac-tic-al ad-van-tage’.” The cowboy did his best impression of the Indiana-born soldier’s favorite phrase. Jack Morrison did not take undue risks, even for bragging rights or the possibility of pulling off something _really fuckin’ cool_ , which were McCree’s two favorite reasons for risk-taking.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” Reyes answered with a non-answer, proving once again he was nothing if not predictable.

The microwave beeped and Jesse let it go off a couple times, still carefully looking but not looking at Reyes before retrieving the Hot Pocket. “Don’t do it, McCree,” Reyes shot off, glancing at the burning square of deliciousness safe in the protective cardboard sleeve in Jesse’s hand.

Ignoring him, Jesse slammed the microwave door shut and crossed the little distance over to a modular set of benches that surrounded a tiny dining table meant to provide for the teams. “C’mon, Reyes,” Jesse jeered, his feet up on the table and his back in the corner seat (the best seat), Hot Pocket in hand and yes he was fairly certain the light on his BAMF belt-buckle was particularly good at this angle but that was mostly coincidence.

“I know you know _somethin’_.”

Something about the way the officer’s throat tightened when he’d said the word ‘Morrison’. The way it broke his vigilant Hot Pocket overseeing let on more than he had intended. Usually Reyes was more committed than that to his little reminders of power.

Jesse pushed the tip of his hard-earned cowboy hat upward with the corner of his lunch and then proceeded to take a bite of molten hot cheesy goodness.

“Jesse James’ tits, ‘hat’s damn ‘ot!”

He swore with a scorched mouth as best he could manage, and spluttered a little until he could locate a glass of water (conveniently supplied by the outstretched hand of one Gabriel Reyes who had apparently been prepared for this eventuality).

“Christ, McCree!” Reyes was gloating again, chastising him in his moment of pain and torture. Quietly, he grumbled an additional “I told you, _pendejo._ ”

Glugging the water down, it was only instinct to slam the empty glass onto the table like he was challenging a person to a duel. He exhaled audibly, tongue still sore but regretting nothing.

“Ah-ah.” Jesse clucked at Reyes through the pain. That particular sideways smile that was in all his wanted posters was plastered on his unshaved face. “Yer not gettin’ out of answerin’ me that easy, _cabrón._ ”

He left his lunch steaming on the table, having decided to wait until the roof of his mouth felt less on fire or until Reyes gave him something useful, whichever happened first.

“You saw it yourself, _pendejo_.”

Jesse could swear that he said it affectionately sometimes.

“He’s one of them ‘super soldiers’. Government engineered to do that sort of thing.” That sort of badass, action movie, cool guy thing! Jesse _had_ to know more. He leaned forward in his seat, boots on the floor so that Reyes would know he wanted more and also that he _meant business_.

“The hell is a super soldier exactly, Reyes?”

“Super. Soldier. Right there in the name.” Reyes gave a small nod to Angela as she walked past the two of them on her way to the fridge (Angela had given up on suggesting healthier meal alternatives to Jesse when he insisted on arguing the nutritional values of every ingredient listed on the Hot Pocket wrapper in that slow Southern drawl of his).

“Hell, you’re not giving me nothin’. What makes a guy ‘super’, exactly? Ain’t like that’s a very descriptive word, Reyes. By that reckonin’, I figure we’re all pretty _super_.” Reyes could hear the cowboy’s grin without need to look at him for conformation.

McCree launched into his happiest voice, then: “Angela!”

Like she was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years and not just the person keeping him alive in a firefight not three hours earlier.

“What makes our friend Jack Morrison such a super soldier? Since Captain Tight Lips over here is restrictin’ his conversation to my life choices, as usual.”

Reyes responded with a sigh, and whatever he did after that Jesse didn’t care to catch because _Angela_ was here now and she would know. The Hot Pocket was also serendipitously cool enough to eat, which Jesse was only barely not convinced had something to do with Angela as well.

“He has been genetically enhanced, body and mind, to be the optimized soldier unit. Super soldier!” Ah, leave it to Angela to just tell you the straight shit. Jesse loved that about her, and the way her accent made ‘super’ sound like ‘supah’ was just the cutest damn thing he’d heard all day. She smiled her polite smile to him from the other side of a glass of some kind of juice he wasn’t sure he wanted to get closer to (it was probably full of grass or something, judging by the color of it).

He had bit into his Hot Pocket satisfied, and that was the end of it.

Over the next couple months, McCree watched Super Soldier Jack Morrison pull off many more stunts similar to the one he had seen that day. He watched Jack on missions when he could, between Reyes barking commands into his ear, hoping to catch another example of bad-assery. Sometimes the asshole didn’t even call for help, just planted his little healing rod down and _mowed_ those bots down like it was just another Texas Sunday afternoon on the range. Jack came back from solo missions that he hadn’t even told anyone about (as badasses do), sweaty and a little beaten around the edges but always with the same glow and fire in his eyes.

It wasn’t until they had hooked up with a pair of mouthy Junkers from the Outback for a recon operation that required highly specific knowledge of explosives that Jesse _really_ started watching. A particular comment from the mouthier of their Australian hires would possess him into a mission to discover just how super Overwatch’s super soldier really was.


	2. Hooley Dooley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Junkrat & McCree fangirl over their fav Super Soldier and Junkrat gets McCree thinking about what's really important~*~

                “ _Hooley dooley_!” Jesse had never heard an Australian accent outside of the movies before now, and this one was loud and excited and everywhere at once.

                “Did ya see that mate? _Did ya?!_ ” The wiry blonde Aussie with singed hair and wild eyes like hot coals couldn’t stand still. He seemed to be _climbing_ his compatriot: a hulking beast of a man identified as “Roadhog” by Reyes, with a commitment to aesthetic that the cowboy instantly respected (he reckoned a stomach tattoo weren’t no stroll on the range as they say).

“Those bots never knew what hit ‘em, Roadie! _KA-BLEWIE!”_ Unable to hold still, the Junker demolitionist called “Junkrat” was clinging to Roadhog’s back, his head over one shoulder with babbling excitement and then in an instant over the other, hands in the air in a way that made McCree wonder how exactly Junkrat didn’t just fall off.

                “They were there one second, n’ then-!” A jet-stream of giggles erupted from Junkrat who was struggling to finish a thought, and McCree watched him jump around like an animal in a cage. Roadhog remained unresponsive aside from the heavy breathing that powered his massive frame, content to be climbed on. “N’ then! _This guy!_ ”

                The rest of the team were filing in to the fancy building they had just ‘liberated’ to use as a base, and Junkrat pointed a familiar mechanical finger at Jack Morrison as he ducked his head in the door. Cue that _Wanted Poster_ smile from the cowboy quietly watching from the sidelines. McCree had to admit, it _had_ been pretty impressive. The soldier knew how to work those helix rockets, alright.

                But Junkrat was doing all the admitting for him, so why bother? Jesse sure as hell wasn’t about to join him on the back of the big guy just to proclaim Morrison’s badass status. Not sober, anyway.

                “He just! Bot parts flyin’ everywhere- _ping! Zwhoosh!_ ” He made some surprisingly accurate explosive noises with his mouth that suggested intimate knowledge and hours of invested practice and unleashed another torrential downpour of laughter. “Back ta the scrap yard, ya metal drongos!”

                Morrison was already setting up HQ and said nothing from behind tactical maps, while Jesse felt the Russian cold set in now that his blood was still and thought to go looking for his winter serape or a celebratory flask to share with nobody but himself.

As far as Australia was concerned, Jesse McCree didn’t know much past kangaroos, “g’day mate”, and radioactive trigger-happy casualties of war – you know, the standard stuff. The Deadeye Gang hadn’t ever managed to make it quite that far south; for whatever reason they tended to get stalled once they got anywhere near the South Americas. Jesse was the kind of guy who could get caught up in a place that supported his chosen look, and on a budget to boot (not to be confused with the budget for boots, which was pretty expansive as boot budgets go).

                So he found himself full of questions when the “specialists” from Junktown came in for assistance on the Volskaya job looking like they had come straight from ground zero: the one built like a beaten fence post seemed even worse at holding onto his limbs than Jesse.

Immediately he liked Junkrat, who was loud and exceptionally easy to wind up and watch go with a few careful words (“Wonder what Reyes would look like with a marker-mustache – I reckon he’s a deep sleeper.”) Jesse liked to ask the important questions with actions, rather than words, and Junkrat gave long-winded “answers” – though Junkrat refused to include his bodyguard as a target of their joint shenanigans as that was a privilege afforded only to his employer, apparently. Roadhog had neither questions nor answers and that was just fine by Jesse. He knew better by now than to mess with the big ones for no reason.

In the freezing temperatures of the opulent building which Overwatch had repurposed as a base, having a reliable form of entertainment almost made up for the biting cold that had nearly everyone on edge. When the scrawnier Aussie wasn’t causing chaos, he was whining about the cold and had begun stock-piling any unattended blankets or coats since their arrival with loud plans to commandeer more, so Jesse felt that his gentle encouragement of the chaos was really an act of benevolence for the whole group anyway.

                Jack was, of course, the only one who didn’t say a word about the cold (even Reinhardt had expressed a desire to challenge the snow for dominance). By now Jesse had begun to expect a stoic demeanor from the operative, though Reyes made comments now and again that suggested Morrison had other modes to pick from if only you knew how to access them.

Like any good outlaw, Jesse knew the key to accessing anything secret was through patience and information.

                The first run of the mission had been simple enough: Blackwatch ops were to escort the Junker team to an undisclosed location (known only to His Keeper of Secrets Gabriel Reyes) to plant a series of explosives which would later be detonated. Or Jesse assumed they were going to be detonated eventually, anyway. Reyes took pride in giving information on a strict and, in Jesse’s opinion, unfair “need-to-know” basis, but leave it to Overwatch to do something arbitrary like plant explosives for no reason. These days he didn’t spend too much time worrying about the ‘why’s so long as the ‘how’s passed muster – and even those he had started to go wishy-washy on.

                The rest of the Overwatch team was presumably going to provide a distraction or something that would mean they would all be able to make it back to base without turning into omnic target practice. The big Roadhog looked like a force to be reckoned with for sure, but through the right robot-eyes he was also a really fun walking bulls-eye that Jesse didn’t think he wanted to be anywhere near while in Russia.

                “Colder n’a witch’s tit n’a brass bra out here, mate!” Junkrat was complaining for the millionth time. A precarious assortment of blinking lights and metal and duct tape were strapped to the yowling demolitionist. It was like a winter coat held together by gunpowder, spit, and prayers, and it was walking rather obviously through the Russian snow.

Roadhog, who was never far behind, seemed to notice neither his partner’s whinging nor the fact that he was a slip or a stumble away from slamming into a firey death. In fact, he was carrying an armful of blinking-beeping-death himself, his giant gun like a scrap-metal mosaic of doom tucked under the other arm and only making him that much bigger. McCree didn’t even want to know what he might do with the giant metal hook attached. The bigger Aussie’s silent mindfulness hadn’t gone unnoticed by Jesse, who finally stopped wondering how Junkrat had made it this far alive.

For his part, McCree hung back, mechanical hand poised on his Peacekeeper in case the noises of firefighting in the distance from the other team hadn’t pulled all defenses like they had hoped.

                “Thank you for the _constant_ reminders.” Reyes growled sarcastically in response, unable to keep himself from saying _something_.

                “Oh sure, any time mate, but how much longer until we get there and start blowin’ the bots away?” Junkrat seemed to wiggle a little beneath the explosive coat of arms he was nearly covered by, and McCree exchanged looks and worried choking with Reyes. “Didn’t come here for a bloody walkabout in the snow! Yer lucky my shiny leg hasn’t frozen t’the ground by now, bub.” This was certainly a change from the triumphant gushing he’d been laying out the first day.

                McCree’s mind wandered in the cold back to that day, over the continued whinging and grumbling back-and-forth in the background as the moved through the industrial scenery dusted in snow.

That “super soldier” stuff had stuck with him; Jack could somehow seem completely absorbed in a mission and still notice when some stray omnics were attempting to flank the team or when Reyes had been quiet for too long for it to be tactical. He found himself waiting with baited breath, allocating more attention than he should to being sure he saw it when Morrison flipped that visor down because he _knew_ what was coming then and wasn’t about to miss a second.

If he could have brought along a speaker module to blast some ‘Skynyrd at the precise moment that Morrison let shit fly, he would have done it without a second thought. Maybe a bald eagle sound effect for the drama.

“Get down!”

 His reverie was broken by a terrifying voice which he could only assign to Roadhog who hadn’t spoken until now, a trend Jesse understood instantly to have been out of sheer kindness for his ability to sleep at night. At the same that he watched the hulking bodyguard take point in front of the explosive-heavy Junkrat, the wind was knocked from him and he skidded across the slush and the ice with one hand tight on Peacemaker and the other instinctively clutching his hat protectively.

The double-bang of Reyes’ shotguns rang in the distance as his commander put down whatever omnic McCree had just allegedly been saved from (he was pretty sure he could have handled it, thanks).

Suddenly the all-but-glittering face of Jack Morrison was squinting down at him with the intensity of judge, jury, and executioner.

“On your feet, McCree!” Jack ordered, his coat wet on the shoulder from where he had sunk into the snow alongside the cowboy when he had valiantly body-slammed him into safety. “Quit your dreaming, soldier!”

McCree’s heart was pounding in his ears. Jack smelled like gunpowder and cloves.

McCree chuckled despite himself as he jumped to his feet, his face flushed but beaming. “You got it, partner. Whatever you want me to do.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, but it didn’t matter much since Morrison was already moving into position with Reyes to protect the Junkers. Angela, Torbjorn, and Reinhardt were nowhere to be found, which meant they were likely holding down the point elsewhere. Morrison had broken away to _save him_.

“Easy there,” McCree drawled as he put down an omnic with a couple shots from Peacemaker. “We got some delicate goods over here.” As if the bots cared – but McCree felt he ought to explain the situation, anyway. He believed in never abandoning manners, especially in a fight.

From the corner of his eye he caught an incoming group of bots through a windowed factory hallway, and his hand went to the flash-bang on his belt when the frantic giggle of Junkrat carried over the shots and he hesitated.

They weren’t anything that Super Soldier Jack Morrison couldn’t handle.

With a lick of his snow-dried lips, Jesse jogged through the snow back to where the team had regrouped around Junkrat, who couldn’t resist tossing some of the smaller explosives over their heads where he could reach with every cackle.

“Incoming, boss.” Reyes turned his head but Jesse was talking to Jack, near breathless only because of the ambush and not for any other reason but that. He jerked his head in the direction of the descending bots.

“Understood,” Came the official reply, and as Jack’s hand went to the visor on his head, time seemed to slow. In those moments McCree became aware that he was not the only one watching their resident Super Soldier, and between the bodies of Reyes and Roadhog he saw the sparkling eyes of a giddy Junkrat who so obviously also understood that Jack was about to _do the thing_.

They exchanged glances just long enough for it to be understood that what was about to happen was _really fucking cool_ and Junkrat’s tiny metal fist went in the air as the sound of exploding bots showered the group of them from behind Morrison’s steady form. In the back of his mind, “That Smell” started playing over the sound of a bald eagle cry.

_So fuckin’ badass, partner._

After that, Morrison was Junkrat’s favorite topic of conversation until the end of the mission. McCree found that with the right amount of alcohol and blankets, he was pretty good company – Angela was always stressed when out on location for a mission, while Torbjorn and Reinhardt fell prey to reminiscing, and Reyes couldn’t be pulled from tactical planning with Morrison unless it was for a clove cigarette and those only lasted so long in the snow. Roadhog provided good enough body heat anyway, or so he assumed from the way Junkrat couldn’t seem to peel himself off his bodyguard for very long. Or was it the other way around? Jesse wasn’t sure.

Maybe it was something the jumpy Junker had said, or just the cold that made him want for something to focus on that made what he said stick.

“Wonder what they did to ‘im, mate, don’tcha?” Junkrat asked near the end of the operation from under the folds of the thick tapestries which had once hung from the ceiling. He had ‘repurposed’ them as cloak-like-insulation, somewhere between poncho and blanket. McCree thought it was pretty clever, but he preferred his personal selection of serapes.

“Tried to get it out of Reyes once, but you know what that’s like.” McCree offered, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of a decorative globe that was so big it just _needed_ to be sat on. “Like talkin’ to wet paint on a Sunday.” He finished, in case Junkrat didn’t actually know.

“Mmmmmm.” Junkrat hummed, apparently thinking and not able to come up with conversation as a result. A wry grin erupted onto his face and he steepled the tips of his metal fingers against his good ones. “Ya think he’s got a ripper of a donger on him? _Gotta be_.”

Roadhog heaved somewhere close by.

“Huh?” McCree scratched at the stubble on his cheek, still trying to decipher the Australian’s dialect. “A what now?” He liked Jack just fine, liked _watching him_ even more, but he didn’t want to get _ripped_ by Jack or anything for that matter, thank-you-very-much.

“Aw come off it,” Junkrat giggled and leaned closer, eyebrows moving in a suggestive way that McCree didn’t think capable outside of old cartoons. “Y’know. Bet he’s got a whopper of a wallaby, mate.”

 _His dick, McCree, he means Jack’s dick_. Jesse heard his internal monologue as the proverbial scratch of a record.

Of course. _Of course!_

That bounty-happy smile spread across his face like warm butter on Texas toast. “I reckon you might be right about that, partner.” He glanced over at Jack from across the room, who was packing and re-packing things for the return trip in hushed conversation with Reyes, and fixed his gaze on the deceptively loose military-issue pants he insisted on wearing.

Like any good criminal, Jesse McCree knew that the key to accessing anything was patience, and a little good ol’ fashioned data recon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies to you if you picked up on the recurring hints of Roadrat/Reaper 76 throughout since Jesse McCree is too busy planning his outfit for the next day to notice, really. Right, Jack came back just for *you*. SIlly cowboy. 
> 
> I really appreciate all the kudos and comments I've gotten so far!! It fuels me, y'all, every tiny click or word of encouragement. Thank you so much for noticing!!! The shenanigans are really gonna take off next chapter >:3


	3. Konichiwa, Amigo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jesse finds himself in Hanamura, the perfect setting for a beginning to his thirst-based quest, and doesn't notice Hanzo Shimada or anything else.

For a while after the Volskaya mission, McCree found his personal quest to get a gander at Jack’s goods to be hopelessly stalled. It didn’t _seem_ that complicated: he had seen plenty of genitals of all different creeds that he hadn’t ever even wanted to see, and yet now that he was simply trying to gather information for the good of mankind, it seemed next to impossible. It was almost as if Jack knew what he was up to, which was ridiculous, because Jesse had been nothing but smooth every time he brought the topic of underwear up in conversation to try and get some intel.

_“Jacky, you gotta make sure you get yourself a nice cotton-blend. Chafin’ is not a laughing matter. You ever have your thighs in a bind like that? Tch.”_

Nothing!

Jack only ever brushed him off with a  laugh, or Reyes would come in at the last second and tell him they needed to “discuss” something “important” which McCree only doubted now that it was inconveniencing him.

It was pushed from his mind when Reyes called him in to debrief him on some bullshit recon mission in Hanamura, which sounded far away without even needing to ask. Far away from Jack, and far away from the super-powered secret in his shorts, two thoughts that had the cowboy securely pouting through most of the official lecturing.

Reyes grumbled like an ancient car in the movies McCree liked best, and explained that he was to be accompanying the very same Commander Morrison as back-up.

“Don’t fuck this up,” Reyes had added, along with some other lecturing about their contacts and something about cultural sensitivity (McCree found this part, frankly, offensive and unnecessary) which he nodded his head through the majority of.

By the time Jesse decided he really didn’t like airplanes, he was already being hurtled through the air in a screeching metal death trap with naught but a few complementary bottles of gin to comfort him.

His “reassignment” after the disbandment of The Deadeye Gang (he had a few other choice words for it, like: “hostage” and “gunpoint” and “forced to”) had seen him on an airplane headed for the Overwatch base with a black bag over his head – not Jesse’s favorite of his accessories, though they did let him wear his hat on over it if only to stop his complaining. Which was fine by him; McCree would complain his way into just about anything he wanted if that was the best way to get ‘er done, partner, and he saw no shame in it.

Maybe he needed to try the black bag thing one more time – it wasn’t _so_ hideous, with the hat and everything.

Jesse didn’t know whether or not Jack was a chatty air travel companion, because he spent most of the long trip paying for every one of those “complementary” bottles in the cramped space of the airplane toilet. What he did know about Morrison’s airtime habits, at least, was that the man’s bladder had to be made of steel not to mind Jesse’s monopoly on the room.

_Super soldier, super bladder. Heh._

He smiled a woozy smile against the cool titanium of the plane’s toilet and resolved to make the most out of his time as Jack’s bodyguard. If Roadhog had taught him anything it was that the position could make even the scariest, ugliest fella into a valued confidant (and to be more careful about how loudly he waxes poetic on missing the taste of _carnitas_ ).

…

Hanamura was worth the airplane ride, Jesse decided after a nap and cold shower. It was gorgeous from what he could recall seeing through fatigue and sickness on his way in, with large cherry trees and carefully manicured gardens of sand that Jesse could appreciate just for the look of them.

Jack had already gotten up, and left him a note on the holopad on the low table in the center of the room: “Meeting @ 19:00. Expect escort at 18:45. I expect Reyes has debriefed you on our hosts.  –  Commander J. Morrison.”

McCree rubbed his thumb over Morrison’s formal sign off and chuckled to himself, his other hand tight on the towel around his waist as he dripped nonchalantly onto the mats on the floors.

Even a backwards cowboy with no prior knowledge of Japanese décor could tell that their room was opulent: both of Jack and him had been provided large beds that sat low to the ground and were dressed with thick blankets, the walls were adorned with what appeared to be hand-painted art of mostly dragon themed scenes, and McCree heard the faint sounds of a fountain at all times from a decorative piece ingeniously hidden behind a sliding door that let out into a private garden area.

McCree’s humble conclusion: he could dig it.

He was lost in his appreciation of this new cultural aesthetic, fingers curling delicately around the smooth curve of a very bright-eyed pink cat figurine holding a golden coin when the sound of tapping on paper interrupted him.

Jesse would later realize that prior to this intrusion he had yet to locate the main door of his room among the paneled paper walls and given his lack of experience with sliding doors combined with his failure to pay attention to them in his jet-lagged state on their arrival, would decide that he was very grateful for the interruption.

His jerking motion left the cat’s up-lifted paw swinging, and for reasons of habit McCree instinctively reached for his hat on the table.

“Ah- _g-gomenasai!_ ” The word was pleading and urgent and deep, obviously some kind of an apology even though McCree couldn’t see the stranger's expression, let alone speak the language.

Jesse blinked at the top of the black, bowed head of the man that had _nearly_ caught him without his hat on.

“Excuse me. I apologize- Mr. McCree.”

His voice was thick with the accent of his native language, but still practiced and flowed even over foreign names. If the guy had eyes, McCree wouldn’t know it yet, the way he was staring holes in the floor. A tiny smirk creased the corners of his mouth just so.

“Shoot, is it that time already?” Jesse asked, having not bothered to check the clock since he got out of the shower. Maybe not the _best_ start for bodyguard – though Reyes had just called him “back-up” and said something about being mostly demonstrative than anything... ...but definitely he meant “guard him and his special super soldier dick with your life, McCree.”

“s’alright, partner, I’m nearly there.” Jesse was currently half naked except for the lovely plush white towel around his waist and of course _the hat_. He was even down an arm, having taken the mechanized thing off for a shower. Luckily for the both of them he had already laid his entire outfit out on the bed, including the metallic arm.

His visitor (“Escort”? Wasn’t that the word the memo used?) just stood there, eyes averted, either out of respect or to hide whatever look was on his face. After a moment, there came a simple, “Very good.”

“What’d’ya say yer name was?” McCree asked as he assembled his ensemble one piece at a time. Reinhardt liked to brag about his armor, but Jesse liked to think his own was just as important. There was loads a good sense of fashion could shield you against: lookin’ like a fool in a pile of metal was just one example.

He turned and faced his escort as he spoke, pulling jeans up over sun-kissed hips and securing his signature BAMF belt-buckle with a snap beneath the dark fuzz that trailed down from his navel.

“Hanzo Shimada.” He was looking up at Jesse, then, and paused a beat. “We met earlier, actually. You were… fatigued.”

The lines of Hanzo’s mouth were tight and taut, hinting at an annoyance that his surreptitiously wandering gaze contradicted. Jesse couldn’t blame Hanzo; he _was_ a pretty good specimen, and not many people even on the Western side of the world had been able to fully appreciate a look like Jesse’s in person.

Everything he could remember about Hanzo Shimada came flooding back to him in the tune of the serious voice of Gabriel Reyes: Hanzo Shimada, eldest son and heir to the Shimada clan business, trained and experienced in martial arts, swordsmanship, and archery. Older brother to Genji Shimada, who apparently had a reputation for being disinterested in the Shimada’s business, which meant McCree didn’t expect to see him much.

“Right, right,” Jesse chimed through a smile and a nod and methodically pulled the rest of his clothes on with practice and ease. He noted the way Hanzo looked away when it came time to re-attach his mechanical arm. “Sorry ‘bout that, partner, wasn’t feelin’ m’self after that ride in the metal bird.” McCree chuckled and straightened, then re-aligned his serape so it was off-center again, but this time more precisely off-center and how he liked it.

“I remember you,” Jesse announced, turning his attentions to Hanzo now that he was finished. For Hanzo’s part, the way McCree already had a habit of going from disinterested to looking him right in the face seemed to have him flustered to find the polite response.

Which was, in this case: “We should go. They are waiting.”

…

The walk to the pagoda where they were meeting had Jesse in a daze, and when he wasn’t gawking at the red-hued wooden architecture which carried so many centuries worth of careful design and inspired workmanship, he was failing miserably to engage Hanzo Shimada in any kind of small talk.

Hanzo’s hair was pulled up into a bun so that Jesse couldn’t tell how long it really was, and he was dressed in some kind of extremely stylish robe which McCree assumed was the appropriate wear (Hanzo didn’t seem the type to break the mold, from what he'd seen so far). He was a little surprised that they would send the heir to be the errand boy, but figured it must be an honor or some shit like that. Hanzo was nice enough to follow around, anyway, so he wasn’t complaining.

None of this explained why Hanzo didn’t seem interested in discussing the weather, or how comfortable his sandals were (they looked stiff to Jesse, but he would have been happy to be told otherwise), or who it was that had drawn all those tiny, delicate lines in their sand garden that he’d seen on the way in. Each question was met simply with a curt, but polite answer, and Jesse chalked the slight flush of Hanzo’s cheeks up to the way he seemed to walk with a speed suggesting he was thought he was goin' barefoot through the Mojave in August.

Jesse realized with sickening slowness once they arrived that he wasn’t going to be _in_ on the discussions. In fact, he was barely so much as acknowledged outside the stern stare-down he was getting from Jack.

“This is Jesse McCree,” Jack introduced him to the dark-haired man standing beside him, whose silver-streaked black hair and intimidating presence announced him as The Big Shit Boss Shimada. Definitely Hanzo’s dad, McCree understood, which made him feel a little weird for reasons he chose not to explore.

Sat at a low table in one corner of the room was the only other person dressed as nicely as Big Boss and Hanzo Shimada. He had a youthful face, and spring green hair that McCree instantly liked, and was consumed with some small electronic device so that Jesse nearly missed the stifled smirk that passed over his face when he momentarily looked over the cowboy in the pagoda.

Echoes of Reyes’s debrief came back to him and Jesse understood that this must be the younger, and arguably the _cooler_ , of the two Shimada brothers. He was gonna have to investigate _that_ later.

McCree attempted to copy the graceful bow which Hanzo had offered him earlier, and dug up the most cordial greeting he could think of to match. “Pleasure t’meet you, _amigo_.”   _Take that, Reyes. Culturally sensitive as hell._

He heard the necessary polite response over his bowed head: “ _Konichiwa_.” Pretty architecture, pretty men, pretty language, what a place Japan was.

And that was the last he heard from the Shimada leader, who disappeared along with a number of henchmen (McCree’s word, but accurate in his opinion) behind another sliding door. At this point, it occurred to Jesse he had no idea which of the walls were walls and which were doors, which was something he should probably sort out, as bodyguard and all.

Jack turned to him once they were gone and spoke with that choked fire in short sentences that meant business and also made the baby hairs on McCree’s neck stand on end.

“That’s your one fuck up, McCree. Don’t be late next time. I’m not going to babysit you. I can’t be on you all the time.” _Anything but that, Jacky._

Jesse swallowed hard around a lump in his throat, his lips smiling all the while and giving himself away. “Yessir, Commander. Un-der-stood.” He dragged the word out into three syllables and nodded just in case his comprehension wasn’t perfectly clear before.

“I don’t know why Reyes sent you with me, but you’re here now.” Jack was speaking to him in a hushed voice, but the words were hard like a concealed dagger jabbing at him with every syllable, and Jesse was punch-drunk. It was just so hard not to think about Jack’s super-powered cock when he talked like that!

Jesse licked his lips and his hands pulled on one another behind his back, skin on metal, metal on skin. If Jack noticed, he didn’t let on.

“So just try and do your job and stay out of the way so I can bring him back a good report.”

Then he was gone, leaving McCree alone with the two Shimada brothers, and the baby hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck went soft again, and his breath came easier, and the smirk on his face gave way to a grin the length of a country mile.

_I know why Reyes sent me, partner. He wants to know about your Southern Super Soldier, too. And I reckon I’ll be the one to tell him._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my lovely friend Kat for bantering with me about this, and about McCree in general, and for coming up with the wonderful line about chafing. She's the best.
> 
> Thank you all so much who have been reading this! Not as much got done in this chapter as before, but in the interest of length (wink wonk) I wanted to get this up now as a kind of lead-up to Jesse's Hanamura-based shenanigans. Though I don't think there will be any actual McHanzo in this, we will get to have fun with poor Hanzo being flustered by a cowboy who is completely oblivious. Oh, and definitely some Bad Boy Genji moments. Stay tuned for some fun in a bath house as McCree does his best to get Jack's pants off one way or another.
> 
> This is turning out a lot longer than I expected (double wink-wonk!) but I'm having fun so as long as you are all enjoying it, I'ma follow this and see where it goes!!


	4. How To Count To Ten With Genji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which McCree and Genji have a little fun, and Jesse accidentally hatches a master plan to get Jack's pants off in front of everybody.

“Hold on a minute there, partner. You askin’ what I think you’re askin’?”

Jesse’s trigger finger twitched slightly at his side. He looked from one Shimada brother to the other, but only the younger one answered.

“Yes.”

“You really know just what you’re askin, fella?” The cowboy took a slow, challenging step towards him, the soft leather of his worn boots creaking slightly under his deliberate movement.

“Genji.” When Hanzo said the word it sounded like a curse, or an _insult_ even. For his part, Genji seemed not to notice.

“Of course.” A knowing smile spread over Genji's face, and that was just about all McCree needed for proof of informed consent. Genji looked McCree up and down slowly, and Jesse only just resisted the urge to pull the brim of his hat down dramatically.

“You think this’ll be enough space?” Glancing around the room, Jesse caught the heated exasperation on Hanzo’s face and only felt that much more excited for what was to come.

Genji thought for a moment, which was all the time Hanzo needed to continue his pleading protests (“ _Genji-_ “). “Perhaps we should go outside,” Genji decided, without even so much as a glance towards his older brother. The formality of his speech suggested a formal education on the English language, but his tone was decisively more casual than that of his brother’s, his grin audible within every word. McCree decided he’d have to teach the kid a few more colorful words before their time was up.

“Sounds good t’me, partner.” He chuckled, tossing a wink at the more uptight Hanzo just for shits. “’S yer funeral.”

The younger Shimada had surprised him; the Shimada patriarch had barely been out of the room for five minutes before Genji was on him with questions about Jesse’s life in in the Southwest and his own personal boasting about local conquests, both in equal measure, and both of which brought on an ice-cold stare down of disapproval from the ostensibly stoic Hanzo.

Jesse was happy to tell him just exactly where he bought his serape (he knew a guy in Oaxaca - best in the whole world, _amigo_ ) and was comparably interested in Genji’s teenage adventures in the local drag racing scene but he hadn’t been expecting a proposition like _this_.

McCree thought to himself about life and how funny it was as he followed Genji to an outdoor courtyard where they could really do it right. A number of silent Shimada associates stood quiet, but attentive to their presence.

The look on Hanzo’s face as he spoke stern, hushed words in Japanese to his brother convinced Jesse to take it easy on Genji – or at least to think about it.

He wasn’t sure how easy he could reasonably take it, for the sake of his reputation, after all.

“You know how to do this?” McCree asked, scratching a little at his chin with metal fingers and then rolling his shoulders as he squared up with the headstrong Genji Shimada. Genji was staring him down with admirable courage – or foolhardy naivety, depending on how all this ended.

“ _Tch_ ,” Genji sucked his teeth disapprovingly and paused, his chin tilted down with just enough drama to make the next words out of his mouth convincing: “Of course I do, cowboy.”

“Alright,” McCree chuckled again, and shook his head. “These guys gonna kill me?” He asked, gesturing vaguely to the stone-faced individuals on watch in their respective corners. The Shimada heirs answered at the same time.

“Yes-“ blurted Hanzo.

“No- _no_.” Genji glared practiced ‘fuck you’ daggers at his brother, and McCree felt like he needed to give Hanzo another wink and a smile to let him know he really ought to loosen up. The fact that each wink-and-smile seemed to be cranking Hanzo’s blood pressure up bit by bit was lost on him.

“Well, shit, let’s do this then.”

It wasn’t every day Jesse got challenged to a quick-draw duel by the errant son of a highly influential Japanese businessman. What was a vacation without a little flippant risk-taking, anyway?

The two stood back to back, though McCree was a good head taller than Genji and only that much more so for their respective fashion choices. Flat sandals just didn’t have nothin’ on his boots, though Jesse would admit they seemed stylish.

“Ten paces, partner. I’ll call out.” Jesse explained over his shoulder, just in case Genji was bluffing and partly to distract himself from Hanzo’s burning gaze in his peripherals. He’d be worried too if his brother had brought a knife to a gun fight, but Genji had insisted with the blade in his hand and so McCree figured he’d just give the kid his kicks and do a little precision shooting that would leave both his reputation and Genji’s vital organs intact.

“Let me do it.” Genji interrupted, and before Jesse could say anything he felt him stepping away.

“ _Ichi!_ ”

McCree was a half-step behind now.

“ _Ni!_ ”

 _Shit, gotta catch up_.

Jesse took an extra half-pace, or what he thought was a half-pace, to make up for his false start.

“ _San!_ ”

_He’s only at three, right? Gotta be._

“ _Shi!_ ”

He glanced at Hanzo, whose quick aversion of his gaze suggested he’d been watching _Jesse_ up until now. Jesse grinned and got lost in the counting again.

“ _Go!_ ”

_Can’t fuck this up, not now while Big Brother Hanzo is watching. Gotta impress Hanzo. Maybe he’ll tell Jack about it._

“ _Roku!_ ”

_Should I be dueling the boss’s son? Probably not. Not like I’m gonna kill him or anything. He’s the younger one anyway, so it’s probably fine._

“ _Shichi!_ ”

_Jack wouldn’t approve. But that guy doesn’t approve of anything fun. Gotta show him how much fun fun can be. Nothin’ a little cowboyin’ can’ fix._

“ _Hachi!_ ”

_Shoot, I ain’t got a clue what number we’re on. Have I been walkin’ enough this whole time? Better get my hand on the trigger here pretty soon._

“ _Kyuu!_ ”

“Almost-“ Hanzo practically hissed the word of warning, and like a switch McCree’s finger jumped and his focus closed. A ringing in his ears like a clear bell nearly drowned out the sound of Genij’s voice.

“ _Juu!_ ”

“ _Draw!”_ McCree felt the word in his throat before he heard himself say it, muscle memory taking over to pull Peacemaker from its holster while he spun round in the sand of the courtyard on the heel of his boot.

The world slowed to a crawl: Oaxaca, Texas, Volskaya, Hanamura, all creeping by as he fired a single shot at the green-haired Shimada boy and _bang-whizz_ it was spat right back at him. In an instant Jesse ducked to the right, and felt the bullet ghost the stubble on his cheek so that one spot was now much smoother than the rest.

“Holy hell in a handbasket!” Jesse choked out in surprise, the laughter coming a second later as he kicked idly at a passing tumbleweed (those things were everywhere he went, it seemed).

“You missed!” Genji announced, sounding _annoyed_ that Jesse hadn’t actually tried to murder him. “ _Kuso!_ I thought we were going to duel!” Even annoyed, there was a lilt to his speech that suggested pride at what he’d done and he was particularly flashy about the way he re-sheathed the short knife he’d apparently used to deflect Jesse’s bullet.

By now, Jesse was open-mouthed laughing, his hands on his knees and his blood rushing in his ears like the first time he was in a duel or the last time he watched Jack put down an army of omnics in a matter of seconds.

“Shiii-eeeet, partner!” He managed to speak finally as his laughter echoed out of the courtyard, and neither Genji nor McCree thought to notice the way Hanzo’s eyes were locked on the cowboy in fascination.

Hanzo swallowed the moment away, having seen his chance to resolve this foolishness without bloodshed from anyone. “They will be done soon. We should return.”

…

McCree could tell from the way the two brothers walked suspiciously too fast for him to keep up that Hanzo was lecturing Genji all the way back inside. That and the way Hanzo seemed to be practically dragging a widely grinning Genji gave them away, even if McCree couldn’t hear a word or even understand had he been able to.

In true outlaw fashion, McCree felt that the best fun was the sort that got you in a little trouble with someone who loved you, so his job here was done as far as the Shimadas were concerned.

Jack still had his coming, which was why when McCree saw Hanzo preparing a tray of sake to take into the Super Secret Meeting he jumped at his chance (literally – enough to take another few minutes off Hanzo’s life, probably).

“You carryin’ that through, partner?” He gave Hanzo his very best charming cowboy smile in the hopes that Hanzo wouldn’t protest.

He didn’t.

“Let me do that sugar, you look like you need to take a breather.” Practically snatching the tray from Hanzo’s hands, Jesse was still trying to form a plan in his head as he slid open the door that stood between himself and Jack’s super dick (luckily he had been paying attention when Jack went through it earlier – “hate to see him leave, love to watch him go” had its uses sometimes).

The adjacent room was more dimly lit than the one they had been in, with even more Shimada hirelings scattered around. Jack was sitting cross-legged in front of one of the low tables, across from the family patriarch and with that unreadable expression of his plastered firmly on his face. Incense burned from somewhere in the darkness, and Jesse’s head felt a little hazy after just a few seconds. The two men seemed locked in a hushed discussion that made Jesse wonder for a second where Jack had learned Japanese and what other secrets he had just _begging_ to be revealed.

Jack’s expression only shifted when he realized who was carrying the tray, which only happened when McCree announced himself by way of a friendly interrupting “Howdy!”

Jesse's smile turned nervous, as he was suddenly realizing that he didn’t really know what the fuck he was doing and had just walked in with the hopes that an answer would make itself known to him. Luckily, his mouth knew to keep talking when his brain failed him.

“Thought you boys could use a drop of something good.”

All eyes were on him, and all mouths were silent.

"Thank you, Jesse.” Jack's voice cut through and saved him, like Jack always did. Like he always would! The praise set McCree to struggle with the urge to beam wildly with pride. The Shimada patriarch said nothing, just watched the bottle and glasses balanced on McCree’s tray carefully for a moment.

Jesse moved to serve Jack, having completely forgotten about any motivations besides earning more public gratitude from his commander. "Hope it's goin' good, boss," He attempted to whisper the encouragement as he poured, but it wasn’t until he attempted a wink-and-smile at the same time that he managed to knock the glass from the table with a loose corner of his serape. As if guided by some higher influence, the newly filled glass landed bottom-up right in Jack's lap.

“Shit-“ Jack half-stifled the curse word as he swooped backwards from the table and McCree hastened to collect the up-turned bottle and scattered glasses.

The tables were just too damn low to go bending over in serapes just willy-nilly! He wasn't _usually_ so clumsy.

“Aw, shoot-“ Jesse was moments away  from launching into some of the most sincere apologizing of his life when he noticed the strategic location of his sake spillage: square between Commander Morrison’s legs and just that much closer to the object of his fascination.

_Genius as always, Jesse._

“Uh-oh partner, better get those off.” Jesse announced, having apparently forgotten about anyone else in the room now that he felt he was so close to a satiating his curiosity. “Don’t want that to set, no sir.” Having crossed his arms over his chest, he clucked his tongue in worry at a frustrated and very damp Jack Morrison now standing in silent distress across from him.

Hanzo and Genji had both appeared in the doorway at the sound of commotion, only Genji had doubled back in order to laugh in a location that was less directly in the face of their American guests (but that didn’t make it any less funny). Hanzo stood tight-lipped as ever, only with his brows furrowed in confusion as to how this could possibly be his current reality.

“McCree!” Jack practically choked on his anger around Jesse’s name, which did nothing for the way the cowboy’s heart was pounding in his chest.

Then, with sudden precision, Big Boss Shimada offered his take on the situation: “Perhaps a trip to the bathhouse is in order. We would be remiss if we did not offer, regardless.”

_Yes! Yes!_

McCree was two seconds from whipping out Peacemaker and firing some celebratory shots into the air, or possibly just kissing Papa Shimada on the mouth for being so dang smart.

“Well if that ain’t just the nicest dang thing I ever heard!” He didn’t kiss any of the Shimadas, but he couldn’t resist slapping his own thigh with excitement anyway. “Just the thing we all need, huh Jacky? A nice bath.” The silence from Jack told McCree he wasn’t prepared to turn down an offer from the Shimada patriarch, but that he wasn’t especially excited about it either. McCree could work with that.

Jesse glanced at Hanzo for assistance, who had at some point gone from the stressed-out pale complexion he’d been sporting most of the night to one of a very flushed pink (which was particularly nice on him). “My buddy Hanzo here would just love to show us, wouldn’t ya _amigo_? We’ve been hittin’ it off, he’s funnier n’a rattlesnake in a bonnet, that one.”

The color of Hanzo’s cheeks deepened just in time for Jack to speak, effectively pulling all attention off of him.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bath house shenanigans coming soon!! I'm having so much fun writing this?!?! Thank you all so much for all the kudos and comments. Each one really makes my day. Poor Hanzo isn't really sure what to make of our little cowboy, it seems. Did u think somethin' else was gonna happen before it turned out to just be a duel? tch tch what a mind you have my friend~*~*~
> 
> also it's my headcanon that tumbleweeds just show up around him a la the actual Deadeye ultimate because why not  
> and Jesse definitely just makes up the southern colloquialisms that he spouts off, but no one calls him on it because he seems like an authority on the subject - i mean he certanily dresses the part anyway
> 
> wonder what Jack and Papa Shimada were talkin' 'bout huh
> 
> does Jack usually call him Jesse???? HMMM.........  
> IS JACK ACTUALLY GONNA GET NAKED IN THE NEXT ONE?! stick around and find out partner


	5. A Shuriken At A Gun Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jesse is totally sure that he's gonna get to see the D at the Shimada's bathhouse, and Hanzo needs help undressing apparently????

McCree only realized that he wasn’t sure what to expect from a “bathhouse” until after they had arrived. In hindsight, he decided that he probably would have assumed multiple individual bathtubs inside some kind of really fancy looking house and while he wasn’t _entirely_ wrong, he was pretty happy about the aspects he _was_ wrong about.

 As it happened, Jesse was too excited about the thought of getting a glimpse of the super-secret super soldier dick in such aesthetically pleasing surroundings to wonder too much about anything else.

Following Hanzo to the bathhouse felt a little like being led around by a guide, possibly because that’s what it was – but Hanzo’s stoic-yet-nervous expression and flighty gaze made Jesse naturally want to take the lead. This was awkward due to the inescapable fact that he of course did not know where he was going, and so they found themselves all simultaneously altering walking speeds to make up for the continuously shifting party leader.

Eventually, Jack pulled ahead with enough decisiveness to get the rest of them to fall in line, even Genji who filled the silence with a loud retelling of the way he had deflected a certain cowboy’s well-aimed bullet.

The bragging, while unnecessary and unwarranted in McCree’s opinion (he was never gonna shoot the kid, anyway, so he didn’t know why Jack looked so sour about hearing of it), presented the opportunity for Jack to update Jesse on the status of the mission.

“Negotiations were not productive.” Jack spoke out of the side of his mouth, his eyes set firmly forward on their destination with enough certainty that Jesse was willing to believe he knew where he was going. Had he been here before? Had he been in the _baths_ before? Had his eyes always looked that glassy?

Jesse nodded the smallest amount in affirmation, as if he knew what they were negotiating or even why the fuck they were here in the first place.

“Be on your guard,” Jack warned, his voice still quiet, and then after a beat: “Things were taking too long- nice redirection, though you could have spared my pants, McCree.”

Jesse could feel heat creeping up along the back of his neck and settle behind his ears and just on the tops of his cheeks at the thought that Morrison would assume his little fumble had been _tactical_ (Jack’s favorite word).

“Any time, partner,” McCree half-whispered through dry lips.

…

“So we gotta take a shower before the bath, huh?” McCree rubbed at his chin idly, rolling the concept around in his head.

“Yes. It’s not for cleaning in, cowboy,” Genji answered rather helpfully, if not with a bit of sass – which was fine with Jesse. A little sass made most things better. “It’s for soaking.”

“Uh-huh, okay.” Jesse decided that all made sense, and was distracted with the way everyone (Hanzo, Genji, and Jack was everyone) seemed to be taking off their shoes in unison. The hesitation he felt at leaving his boots behind was quickly ushered out of the realm of importance when he caught a look from Jack that made ice run through his veins for half a beat.

 _Culturally sensitive as fuck, amigo._ McCree thought to himself as he carefully, gently, lovingly removed each boot and placed them deliberately between Hanzo’s sandals and Jack’s combat boots (even though it required some manual rearranging, he felt like this was the best look for the shoes and was willing to take the time to do it).

Once the shoe arrangement was sorted, they were led through another sliding door into the shower room (at least, this was how Jesse would refer to it) which had several very modern looking shower heads perched over what he could only assume were handcrafted, artisan stools. Jesse had never had a shower sitting _down_ before, but he figured there were worse prices to pay if it got Jack’s pants off – and  Hanzo’s _yukata_ too, now that he thought about it, though he wasn’t going to put much stock into ogling the Big Shit Boss’s son.

It only occurred to him after this particular thought that it was a little strange that the Shimada clan’s head wasn’t accompanying them. He glanced at Jack, a little concerned about not knowing what that meant – had negotiations really gone that poorly? Was he supposed to be worried?

Any concern for his own levels of concern promptly melted away as Jack shrugged his jacket off and then followed suit with the t-shirt underneath. _What a good ol’boy_ , McCree thought to himself as he watched the cotton-blend American made shirt lose literally all of its relevance in the wake of the newly exposed Super Soldier bod which it had been hiding from the world up until now.

Not that Jesse hadn’t seen him shirtless before, and as far as shirtless bodies went Jack’s was pretty good, but somehow it was just _better_ in Hanamura amidst the incense and the cherry blossoms and the way Hanzo was watching Jesse undress. Not the most unfamiliar sensation in the world, though he _was_ a little surprised at the lack of subtlety from the eldest Shimada son. Jesse figured there must just be somethin’ about a cowboy that made a body act up.

McCree was perfectly happy to lose himself in the build-up, the great slow burn leading to the big (he was sure) reveal, without a care for the company he shared it with. He had already begun to make quick work of his own clothing, practiced hands carefully folding and preserving each garment with passive ease, but his own attention on that little streak of dark blonde fuzz that grew beneath Jack’s navel.

_Oh, fuck._

He swallowed hard, instinctively clasping his hat to his head with his metal hand as if to get a grip on himself.

_Here it fuckin’ comes, partner._

Jack’s fingers dipped beneath his own waistline, as if to suggest he was poised to remove trousers and underwear _both_ in one swift motion that had Jesse’s breath stopped in his chest. The contour of Jack’s hips made little valleys like runways pointing the way to the real prize, and the way they just peeked out over his pants had McCree doing his best to keep his tongue in his mouth.

_Any. Second. Now-_

“Ahem-“

_Just a few more… centimeters…_

“M-Mr. McCree-“

McCree could hear _God Bless America_ playing with a mash-up of _Sweet Home Alabama_ layered over it from somewhere inside his head. It took all of his self-discipline not to make the bald eagle screeches himself.

“Would you mind-“

Jack’s military-standard issue trousers were off. Gone. Definitely. In fact, McCree could see them being put aside, but what he _couldn’t_ see was the glorious treasure of genetically enhanced, all-American supercock, because Hanzo Shimada was now standing directly in front of him and acting as a sort of human shield for McCree’s front row-seats to the cockshow.

“Huh?” Jesse felt himself say the word before he heard it come out his mouth, which was probably why it sounded so stupidly stunned.

“Could you, perhaps-“ His eyes refocused on the man in front of him, who was far more clothed than Jack, and also definitely not him at all. Hanzo had his back to him, and was looking at Jesse over his shoulder, apparently requesting assistance on some sort of knot he couldn’t undo on his own. On any other day, with any other person, Jesse would have been more than happy to unwrap this kind of present, but dammit, partner-

He was fumbling for the words to explain his predicament (“If you could just step to the side, _amigo, for one second-_ “) to the red-faced Hanzo, and at the same time was reaching for Hanzo’s shoulder with his metallic hand so that he could maybe, possibly, shove him out of the way just a tiny bit when two things happened at once.

First: the sound of a sliding door, followed by the unmistakable _whizz_ of metal which McCree had experienced not an hour earlier during the mock-duel he’d had with Genji.

Second: what had started as a friendly (if not a bit inappropriate) push on Hanzo’s shoulder became a veritable thrust, as both his instinct to make _sure_ he caught an eyeful of Jack before whatever was happening actually happened and the one to potentially save Hanzo from harm enacted at once and as a result the flustered Shimada was tossed across the room.

In an instant, the once peaceful Shower Room was thrown into chaos. A number of bodies which moved too quickly for McCree to accurately count flooded the room (in later re-tellings, he’d put his money on fifteen, partially because he was a bettin’ man and partially because he trusted his ability to count) and over the buzz of adrenaline that shot through him he could just make-out the sound of Jack Morrison giving orders. For a moment he questioned whether the orders were meant for him or possibly the Shimada brothers, but a quick sweep of the room told him that the pair had disappeared.

Which meant it was just him, and Jack a.k.a. the world’s fastest re-dresser.  And a whole shitload of ninjas.

Jesse tucked and rolled just in time to only be clipped by a screaming shuriken on the shoulder instead of its intended home in the side of his neck. He hadn’t imagined his trip to Hanamura ending in a shirtless ninja showdown, but as long as he had Jack at his side (who was _valiantly_ punching the face of every ninja within reach) he was pretty happy.

With swift movements and the extra oomph that metal bionics packed, Jesse was able to take down a few of their attackers by taking advantage of the initial confusion, but by the time the dust settled he found that he couldn’t hold still for more than a second if he wanted to get out with his hat and face both intact.

They simply didn’t have the numbers, and it was unfamiliar territory. He ducked and rolled a second time, reaching for a flash-bang in time to remember he had turned them in when they got off the plane. They had only let him keep Peacemaker on the agreement that he only had the six bullets that could fit in its chamber, and he had already used one in the courtyard when the youngest Shimada asked for a shootout.

Jesse hadn’t fired a shot since then, nervous as he was about hitting either Hanzo or Genji in these close quarters, but he reckoned that wasn’t an issue any longer since they had hightailed it out of there just as soon as shit went south.

McCree pressed his lips together determinedly, and straightened his hat just in time to deflect another shuriken with the butt of his pistol. _Enough horsin’ around._ Jack had put down a considerable amount of attackers in his own right, every punch landing a strategically optimal blow to the most vulnerable organ at the time of impact, so that if Jesse did this right he could live up to the name of bodyguard in a matter of seconds.

Quickly dispatching his nearest assailant with a quick jab of Peacemaker to the temple (“Sorry bout that, partner.”), McCree rolled again to the corner of the room where he could sight the remaining five who were all attempting to take Jack down by way of exhausting him.

His ears began to ring again as he raised the pistol, squared his eye, and time seemed to slow as he picked the home for each bullet. With a quick-action thumbing on the hammer of his gun, the silence following _bam-bam-bam-bam-bam_ told him that Jesse McCree was the best bodyguard this side of the Mississippi.

 _Hell yeah, partner_ , Jack _must_ have been thinking as their eyes met from across the room. Jack was uncharacteristically out of breath, his hands on his knees and his eyes sparkling with adrenaline and anger at the ambush. McCree, on the other hand, was feeling pretty proud, and casually kicked at the tumbleweed around his feet.

“I ain’t ever been to one of these before,” McCree chimed, spinning Peacemaker in his hand before shoving it back in its holster. “But I didn’t think that was part of the deal.” He was just trying to be culturally sensitive, was all, and stay open minded.

Jack let out a breathless laugh, and shook his head. “Nope.” He took a stumbled half-step backwards, and placed a hand on the wall near him, murmuring something to himself about incense that Jesse didn’t catch. “Let’s get out of here before they send anyone else.”

“You got it, boss.”

“How did you know they were coming? You pushed Hanzo out of the way like you knew.”

“Oh, uh- y’know how it is, partner. Always watchin’ in case something slips out.”

“Right. Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, because Hanzo doesn't know how to get out of his OWN clothes. Oh McCree, you just do you, baby. Hands up if you think Hanzo is super sure that McCree tried to "save him" and is gonna have to think about for the rest of forever until they meet up again [HANDS WAY UP]
> 
> so i *THINK* the next one is gonna be DA LAST ONE
> 
> aka 
> 
> where we will probably finally  
> see  
> that  
> dick
> 
> :O
> 
> thank you all so much for your kudos, your comments, your views, you lot are amazing and I'm glad you are enjoying my lil cowboy shenanigans :3 <3


	6. Quickdraw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jesse decides he might need to give up on getting the D, just in time for the D to get to him. Special thanks to my dear friend/long-time writing partner Kat who has spent many an hour drabbling w/me about McCree, and the lovely and patient Vigs who always has time to read my shit even tho it ve doesn't even go to this fandom and give some much-appreciated observations and edits <3 <3 <3

Jesse McCree did not consider himself a _quitter_. He had his old library card from when he was ten and wanted to rent old Western movies from the “history” section, still carried a stamp card for the frozen yogurt place in Santa Fe that only needed one more stamp left, hell even his leaving The Deadeye Gang had been more of a shanghai situation than anything.

But, as he held his hat in his hands and rubbed a metal finger along a divot on the brim where a stray bullet had whizzed by his ear yesterday while he was distracted trying to catch the best angle on Jack’s precious payload, he decided that Operation Dickspotting might need to take a – a hiatus, for a while. He didn’t even need Reyes to lecture him on combat awareness for a half-hour afterwards to figure that much out (though he got it anyway).

So he wasn’t _quitting_ , exactly, just going to put it on a backburner – at least until he could get his hat properly repaired and in the meantime Jesse figured he’d just make a run to the station’s gym every time he found his thoughts idling on what was between Morrison’s super-charged thighs.

It had been less than twenty-four hours, and already Jesse was sore in muscles he’d forgotten he had. At a certain point he wondered if it was even worth leaving the gym just to turn around and come back the second Jack lingered in the same room as him for more than two minutes.

The sauna, thankfully, was only just down the hall from the gym and therefore definitely a safe haven. He thanked himself a thousandth time for getting his hat the best weatherproofing stolen money could buy and removed everything else, arranging his clothes with the same carefulness he’d done in Hanamura.

Thoughts of Hanamura brought back images of Hanzo Shimada’s stern, red-cheeked face awkwardly interjected between himself and Jack and McCree just barely managed to steer himself away from needing to do another set of leg presses in order to chase the memory away. He tied the towel around his waist with renewed determination to kick this thought-addiction by way of good ol’fashioned sweating-it-out.

The sauna _was_ a safe haven, and Jesse thought he could almost feel his stress and soreness melting away onto the bench he was sitting on. He let his head lean back against the wall, hair clinging to his forehead beneath the hat, and he closed his eyes to let his thoughts drift into the static buzzing of mental and physical fatigue.

Jesse had always been good at floating into that sweet absent void given a few quiet moments and some space to himself, an ability that made an outlaw’s life surprisingly peaceful when he ought to have had trouble sleeping, and now it made his insidious work with Blackwatch something he’d just deal with in PTSD nightmares later. His shoulders fell slack and there was just _nothing_ – nothing but steam and heat and-

“Got room for another?”

It took McCree a good second or two to open his eyes and keep them open, blinking under the weight of his own self-induced mental fog to see through steam that his safe haven was, in fact, more of a bear-trap.

Jack sat down on the bench perpendicular to his, his question about room having been more of an informing statement than an actual inquiry. He had a towel around his waist to match McCree’s, his lighter skin an even starker contrast when compared to Jesse’s olive complexion, and the hairs like corn-silk beneath his navel suggested that he was, in fact, a natural blonde (which answered only one of Jesse’s burning questions).

“Uh- sure thing, boss,” Jesse offered a good second or two too late.

He told himself that the heat in his cheeks was from the sauna now that it had been a little while, and nothing else, which meant it was perfectly reasonable that he should reach for his water bottle. The cool water against his throat cut through the haze that had settled on him between his little meditative reverie and the way a half-naked Jack Morrison had wandered onto the scene like a pipedream.

It was quiet between them for a while, Jesse knowing that Jack tended to like his space (he didn’t feel like telling jokes that Jack wouldn’t laugh at if Angela wasn’t around to give him a few sympathy chuckles at least) and not wanting to break the unspoken etiquette of the sauna. It was only when Jack spoke that he realized his gaze had casually settled on Jack’s stomach and had been there for he-wasn’t-sure-how-long.

“You’ve been distracted lately, McCree.”

He was doing that Jack thing again, where he just tells you things about yourself and he’s not _wrong_ exactly but-

“That right?” Jesse shot back, pressing his lips against one another and finding that he would really rather be looking at Jack’s lower stomach than trying to meet his gaze or basically anywhere else.

Jack sucked his teeth at him, and jutted his chin in the direction of Jesse’s damaged hat. “You know it.”

Here Jesse was squirming, tilting his hat up and then down again on his head with one hand, the other one fidgeting mechanically on the bench beside him.

“Reckon you might be right about that, partner,” Jesse admitted with a bit of a gulp that reminded him he could also drink from his water bottle if he ran out of nervous actions to take otherwise. It was a welcome reminder.

“Nearly got yourself killed, recruit.” _Ain’t no damn recruit_ , Jesse thought to himself around the mouth of the water bottle, but listened to Jack talk anyway. “So maybe you should just get to what’s distracting you so much.”

The water stuck in his throat and nearly came out his nose. With a couple coughs Jesse found he could breathe again, but he was fixated on what felt like – was Jack coming _on to him?_ He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and found that Jack still wasn’t correcting himself and even that there was a little smirk just ghosting across his lips that suggested all sorts of things McCree had been trying to stop thinking about.

“Well, shit, partner,” was all Jesse could manage to say, his attentions suddenly drifting back to Jack’s stomach and further down even. “Is it that obvious?” McCree asked, still not bothering to look Jack in the eye in a move that ultimately answered his question even before Jack could.

Jack shook with a soft laughter that Jesse had never heard before from him and said, “I thought you’d get over it eventually. Most people do.”

If Jesse McCree had managed to avoid looking surprised his entire life, even displayed a casual coolness as he was being kidnapped out of one gang to join this one, he couldn’t have hid it now that a nearly naked Jack Morrison was telling him he had _known!_

Jack had just known _the whole time_ that he was trying to catch a glimpse of his dick! And that it happened _before_ , even – regularly?

As the shock wore off, a warm chuckle rolled out of Jesse and it was loud enough to cover the pounding of his heart. “I’m not a quitter, Jack,” he announced with a grin.

“It’s not worth dying over,” Jack shot back, only a little amused.

“Who’s dyin’? Just a scratch, is all.” Jesse hadn’t told anyone about his plan to try and break out of the dick espionage game, after all.

“If you get a good look- that going to clear your head?” Jack asked, as if he was asking whether or not Jesse wanted cream in his coffee.

Jesse scratched at his chin like he wasn’t sure what the answer was for a moment before answering, “I mean, ‘s long as yer offerin’, wouldn’t hurt to try.” That wanted-poster smirk played on his face and he scooted a little closer to Jack.

Jesse couldn’t believe his fucking luck – it had to be luck, right? There was no way Jack was saying he could have just asked or something-

“If you wanted it that badly, you could have asked instead of-“ McCree was on his feet and then just as quickly on his knees in front of the Commander, who was saying all the right things about three weeks too late. “Instead of pouring things on my pants and constantly trying to get the teams to play strip poker.”

Jesse just grinned, both hands on Jack’s knees and he glanced up at his face just enough to seem like he was at least kind of paying attention to what he was saying. “Maybe I just wanted to play an interesting game of poker,” McCree offered, sliding his hands over Jack’s knees and up, up, up his thighs slowly, carefully.

“Everyone knows you’re a card shark,” came Jack’s response, and when McCree looked up at him a second time he was resting his blonde ahead against the wall and was watching Jesse with all the casual viciousness of a panther momentarily at ease.

Jesse could only chuckle and shake his head, too occupied by his desire to feel the soft skin of Jack’s slightly damp thighs under his fingers and the way they curved smooth under the towel. Without noticing it he leaned his cheek against the inside of Jack’s knee, just watching his own fingers push the fabric up and then travel over the front of it between Morrison’s legs, his mouth going dry again so that Jesse had to lick his lips to regain himself.

From Jack’s perspective he could see Jesse’s eyes all but sparkling from under that hat as they teased at the microfiber cloth. Jesse was determined to get that poke-you-in-the-eye silhouette before revealing it all to himself, and no sooner did the electric guitars start playing in his head then he had gotten what he wanted, which had shut both of them up momentarily.

Jesse hummed with delight at the way the towel tented pleasantly before him, like some thinly-veiled prize behind a game show door that everyone in the studio audience was waiting with baited breath for him to open. His toes curled on the floor where he knelt in anticipation and fireworks began to go off somewhere over an all-electric version of The Star Spangled Banner as he worked his fingers into the knot at Jack’s hip and it gave way like the curtain unveiling of the century.

“Bee-you-tee-ful,” Jesse half-whispered it like a prayer, and damn if he wasn’t getting all glassy-eyed and thinking about how God really _had_ blessed America with this one. It was enough to make a man put his hand to his heart and start saying the pledge of allegiance, but all at once he felt he had _much_ better uses for that hand.

Jesse was just a hair’s breath away from the cock of his dreams, all thick and sleek and beautifully shining in the steam of the sauna, when he remembered his manners. “May I?” McCree asked with a grin, glancing upwards and swallowing back the build-up of saliva he’d conjured in the meantime.

Jack was smiling – with his lips it was only just barely enough to be perceptible but from down on his knees Jesse could see the proverbial grin in those blue blue eyes shining through like justice. “Whatever helps you get your head in the game, McCree,” Jack replied, with a little nod.

With the green light given, Jesse only had himself to fight from right away impaling his throat on that perfectly shaped super-cock, which managed to somehow be just big enough to make a man ambitious rather than intimidated like whoever designed it just _knew_. No, he would be careful and savor, deciding instead to just delicately kiss at the tip so that he might stroke it a few times, feeling the weight in his hand with delicious satisfaction that made him sigh happily now and then.

He spent some time with this, just stroking Jack’s cock and placing lazy, sloppy kisses on it wherever he thought to reach, before an ache in his knees and Jack’s stuttered gasp reignited that greed in him and soon Jesse found himself with this All-American super-dick halfway down his throat and still wanting more. Jesse was attentive with his hands, the organic one moving in time with his mouth to cover any of Jack’s length that he couldn’t quite fit while his metal one skillfully cupped those perfect blonde balls beneath it with precision that suggested he was perfectly aware of how some men might be concerned to have their testicles in a robot hand.

Jack was making harsh sounds with his breathing like McCree was doing something right, and at some point his eyes had fluttered shut, and Jesse could see Jack’s fingers curling into the sauna bench on either side of the towel that was now useless to him. It reminded him with aching clarity how much more he wanted than just to see and to touch and to suck; a week ago he would have given his best serape (okay maybe not his _best_ ) just to see a blurry printed screenshot of a webcam photo of Jack Morrison’s junk but now that it was in front of him and poking at the back of his throat he wanted _more, more, more_!

McCree pulled off of the soldier’s dick with a satisfying _pop_ sound and he smacked his lips a little, which was enough to get Jack to pay attention again. Jack couldn’t help the slightly annoyed grumble in his voice when he asked, “So, are you satisfied?”

Jesse was just red-faced grins, despite his jaw being the slightest bit sore, because Jack Morrison was _bothered_ that he might just leave him hanging like this. “Not yet partner, that was just a warm-up. You know what they say: it ain’t gonna suck itself.” Jesse said this with a little bit of a shrug as he stood back up and Jack was too dazed by this comment to know what to say in return before McCree was settling himself into his lap right then and there.

“Christ, McCree,” came Jack’s response, finally, his eyes closing tight for a second or two at the feeling of Jesse’s own cock pressing against his all of a sudden. Jesse gave a breathless chuckle and, with both hands on Jack’s shoulders, rolled his hips forward experimentally. The friction was exquisite, and he wasted no time afterward removing his own towel so that he might _see_ how glorious this was: Jack’s pearly genetically enhanced cock haphazardly pushing against his own ( _Who decided the Perfect Cock needed to be white anyway?_ McCree would wonder later reliving this moment on his own time), which was a bit smaller and certainly darker, the curly nest of dark hair at its base mingled with blonde too, now.

“Ah- ah-“ McCree moaned between bitten lips, the roll of his hips slow and easy like the rolling waves, his cowboy hat an even more fitting accessory in these moments as he rode Jack with one hand now keeping them together. Suddenly Jack’s hands were on his hips and he was _pulling_ Jesse forward with every rhythmic motion, eliciting a string of helpless sounds from McCree’s lips.

“Mmmh, Jack,” Jesse breathed, having dropped his forehead to rest on Jack’s shoulder. Now when he moved his hand he was stroking both of them, and each time he did he was rewarded by a soft groan in his ear from Commander Morrison, the feeling of tension in his stomach growing tighter with every passing second. Jack’s hands on his hips tightened and his fingers pressed into Jesse’s sun-kissed skin so that there would definitely be bruises later, but he was pulling Jesse forward and then pushing him down, and what had started as a slow rhythm was now a star-spangled sex rodeo as McCree hissed between gritted teeth that he was going to come if Jack didn’t stop.

Jack didn’t stop.

Jesse came with the sound a hundred thousand bald-eagle cries, or at least that’s how he would remember it, his heart thumping along to the most appropriate Johnny Cash riff for super-powered gay sex (which was all of them in his opinion), and his toes curling a second time for so long he forgot for a moment that they could do anything else.

When he could open his eyes again, his thighs were shaking, and there was a mess of sticky white across both of their stomachs so that Jesse knew he’d _missed it_.

“Fuck!” McCree exclaimed, apparently upset. Jack, half-breathless and confused, just eyed him. “Something the matter?” He asked the outlaw, after a moment.

“Yer damn right there is! I missed it!” Jesse exclaimed, groaning a little as every tiny shift beneath him sent shockwaves of sensitivity through his body again. “I missed your cum-face, partner!” The way he said it, it was like he’d been robbed of his life’s work in an instant.

Jack could only roll his eyes, and with one smooth motion he removed the slightly-damaged cowboy hat from the cowboy’s head and put it onto his own, Jesse being too indignant about feeling robbed to do anything about it for a second.

“Well, partner, _”_ Jack said, doing his best McCree impression, “ _That’s what we call a quickdraw._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! It's here! It's finally heeeeereee! I hope that I did all the build-up justice. This was a blast to write, I apologize for the delay of the last chapter but I was doing school and finally got to it over spring break (my prof said I wouldn't be able to finish it while I did hmwk over break - ha!!! fuck u!). Thank you so much, everyone, for reading. Every click and comment and bookmark is so encouraging. You are all a great group in this fandom, I love making you laugh, and I hope you enjoyed my take on McCree. <3!!!
> 
> Also: JACK TOOK OFF HIS HAT!!! how dare


End file.
